


It's Just Tim

by SparkleDragons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but with a fun and spicy twist that I will not elaborate on because it's a surprise), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm writing jon's perspective when he's fairly newly blind but i am not blind, No Apocalypse, Panic Attacks, Referenced eye trauma, Season 4 Setting, Self-Loathing, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Lives, but also don't. i'm here to hurt you, canon-typical kidnaping, canon-typical self-blinding (referenced), canon-typical threats of violence, close depiction of a panic attack, feel free to let me know if i've fucked up, fuck elias 2020, give blinded jon a guide dog 2020, jon accepts death (tm), some minor body horror, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25322737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleDragons/pseuds/SparkleDragons
Summary: After Martin says he won't do it, Jon goes through with blinding himself, severing his connection to the Eye along with everyone else's tie to the Archives. Everyone is free without even knowing about the looming threat of apocalypse on the horizon.And then Tim shows up, all things considered, back from the dead.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 34
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this was an idea that came to my friend Hyst in a dream and they talked about it in a tma server we share. My brain latched onto the idea, I asked permission, and now this exists! So enjoy!
> 
> Hyst is @hysterical-random-things on tumblr and @HystericalRT on twitter. PLEASE go check them out their artwork is AMAZING!!

The knock at the door comes as a surprise. Jon doesn't think they've ever gotten a fully unexpected visitor before, hell they don’t really get many visitors at all, and he can feel Lieutenant perk up at his feet. He hums around his tea and sighs. The podcast he's been listening to is just starting to get into the details about how string theory and manipulation of gravity and space could be used to travel faster than light; he's not in any particular mood to get up. Maybe whoever it is’ll just go away. Please let them just leave.

Lieutenant whines at Jon's feet and he reaches a hand forward to find an ear of hers to scratch behind. "Probably just a neighbor with our mail, Lieutenant. We'll let Martin pick it up when he gets-"

Another knock, no more forceful, in fact eerily similar to the first. It sounds... off, but Jon can’t place why. "Mmm," He hums, taking another sip of tea. It's long gone cold since Martin went into town for groceries, but he hasn't quite got the hang of maneuvering the kitchen yet and doesn't want to make a mess trying to make some of his own. He’s never been able to make it quite right anyways. "Not mail, then."

Jon's not an idiot. He knows full well their newfound freedom from the eye doesn't imply immunity or even a lack of interest from the other dread powers. Hell it doesn't necessitate the Eye won't come knocking looking for revenge. In fact, he’s damn sure Elias is probably looking for a way to get the archives back together right now. He smiles to himself at the thought of Elias sending Peter furious letters from prison about the mess the Lonely avatar’s made of his institute.

He feels Lieutenant stand up under his hand. As trained, she doesn't move from her spot, but he can feel the tension in the lab's muscles when he strokes down her back. Something's got her well spooked.

Jon debates the merits of just ignoring the door and hoping whoever, or whatever, it is gives up and leaves. Though, if it _is_ an agent of one of the entities, it's a fat chance they'd just let an unopened door sit between them and, what? revenge? Jon’s not the Archivist anymore, so that’s all it could be, unless he’s become unlucky enough to be a target like in all the statements. That _would_ just be his rotten luck.

No. A locked door wouldn't stop them, not by a long shot. And if it _is_ one of their neighbors, he probably shouldn't continue to piss them off by being rude. Martin keeps going on about how Jon should be more polite to their neighbors.

‘ _What if we have to borrow a cup of sugar, Jon,_ ’ Yes. The wonderful modern tradition of knocking on your neighbor’s door and requesting some sugar for your tea. He respects Martin’s sense of positivity, but he really doesn’t see the point in masquerading poilitness to the _Wellborows_ and their proper sensibilities.

There’s another round of knocking. The same two beats, same exact distance apart, same odd tone to the sound, like wood knocking on wood.

Jon sighs, pauses his phone, and puts down the cup on the side table before pushing himself off the couch with a grunt. He really would have liked to ignore this, but if they’re going to be _insistent_ . Lieutenant whines and he gives her a pat on the side and a small shush. Legally the apartment complex has to let her stay, but Jon doesn’t want to push their luck with noise complaints. So far it hasn’t been a problem, she’s a very polite dog. Lieutenant stays close to his side as he moves across the room and he’s happy to know she'll be there if something goes wrong, not that he'd expect her to be able to do much if a monster _is_ laying in wait.

Couch to door is easy enough. At the very least he isn't banging his leg against the coffee table anymore, which is good. They marked out where it needs to sit on the floor with tape since Martin putting his feet up tends to move it just far enough to throw Jon off. Get enough bruises and anyone can learn their house's layout. The small apartment means he’s figured most of it out at this point, even if the first two weeks or so were rough. Memorizing how drawers, cabinets, and closets are set up has been harder, but he’s getting there. It’s actually been surprisingly easy.

"Hello? Who-a…” He clears his throat. “Who's there?" Jon doesn't reach for the doorknob, lest this be a visit from the Desolation.

"Jon?" The voice is hopeful and distinctly familiar in a way that sends a sharp pang of longing through Jon's chest. But it can't- "Jon it's Tim."

Jon swallows around a suddenly dry mouth, Lieutenant snarls. It's probably a trick, in fact, chances are _much_ higher it's a trick than not. Tim's supposed to be- Jon puts on an air of confidence, hoping it's not too easy to see through. Stranger? Probably? _Maybe_ Spiral, but mimicking those the victim knows has always been more the Stranger’s game. The thought that this might be the NotThem somehow returning for payback strikes the back of his mind and he feels his heart rate spike.

“Prove it-” Jon says, backing away from the door. He pulls out his phone and presses the home button for speech-to-text.

“Text Martin,” he says as loud as he dares.

‘ _Ok what do you want me to say_ ,’ his phone chimes back and Jon hopes it’s not loud enough for the thing claiming to be Tim to hear.

"I was worried I had the wrong house for a moment,” ‘Tim’ says through the door, “but there's the old paranoid Jon I know." He sounds jovial. Jon’s only barely listening, muttering the text to Martin into his phone. "Come on, Jon. It's me! Let's see... Oh! When you first got promoted was the first day you came in with your hair all gelled up. I told you you looked like a twat and you scowled at me in that way that makes you look like a pissed off feral cat. The ones that hang out on the brick walls in the sun? With all the ivy?"

Jon chews his lip. It’s specific, but well within the IDoNotKnowYou’s abilities. "I- right.. If you _are_ Tim, I just want to check some tapes. I have a few old recordings. Just. Just want to compare voices? Alright?"

If he can stall it’ll give Martin as much time as possible to either get home or contact one of the girls. If he got the message. Jon isn’t going to risk asking his phone to repeat back Martin’s reply.

Tim laughs and it _sounds_ so much like him it makes Jon’s chest _hurt_ , but he will _not_ let himself hope. He won’t. He can’t.

"Sure, sure,” it says. “I'll just sit outside your door like a college kid then? Is Martin home? Heard you were living together now. Glad you two tied the knot, he's been crazy about you for years, probably since he first started working the archives.”

"I-yes, well. I'll go.. See if I can't find those tapes." Jon’s face burns despite himself, but he can be smart about this. At least it certainly seems interested in talking.

Hell. Maybe... maybe he can let himself dream just a little bit? _He’d_ survived the unknowing, and they never did find Tim's body. Maybe, by some miraculous turn of fate, Tim did make it. Jon wouldn't blame him for not coming back to the archives. If what happened broke Tim's connection to the Eye it's not surprising he wouldn't want to even approach the building ever again. That’s all Tim’d wanted by the end after all.

Jon knows exactly where the box from the archives is. In the closet, in the bedroom, tucked neatly to the side on the floor. Martin had snatched the tapes from the archives before the ambulance arrived, just in case they helped with Jon’s recovery. They didn’t, of course. No he had to go through that trial on his own, normal, _human_ , healing rate. It was hell, but the kind of hell that carried with it a deep seeded relief that he wasn’t too far gone. There was enough left of _him_ that losing the Eye didn’t spell out death. They’d kept the tapes regardless, Jon figured it probably miffed Elias to know they had pieces of the records so why not. 

Martin thinks they should dump it, Jon can’t force himself to do it yet, though. He tugs it out and takes a seat on the floor. It takes a moment of feeling around to find the recorder. Even with his connection severed the thing just feels right in his hand, old habits he supposes.

Finding the right tape takes longer. A trial and error of pulling tapes out, trying them in the player and putting them back Normally he'd just ask Martin to find the right one for him, but, well... Tim’s waiting… Tim _might_ be waiting, he corrects himself. Jon _might_ be wasting time a little bit. He’d certainly be more comfortable doing this with Martin here.

Eventually he finds one of the tapes he knows has Tim's voice on it and holds his breath. If the IDontKnowYou managed to break out of whatever Leitner did to it in the tunnels and is looking for revenge, this tape should reveal it.

He fast forwards to the end, holds his breath, and presses play.

And Tim's voice comes through clear as he remembers, same as the person currently sitting in the hallways. It...

It really is Tim. He really is alive.

He practically chokes on his combined joy and relief.

Jon has to pace himself getting back to the front door. He can't move as fast as he could before, but he puts up with a bit of stumbling to get to his _friend_ back from the dead.

"Tim?" He calls back through the door, unable to hold back the pure elation in his voice. "I-I checked the tapes and... I-Well.” He laughs, really truly delighted. “How are you _alive_?"

Tim's muffled laugh comes from behind the door. "It's a long story. I'll tell you if you let me in already. No more yelling through the door. I’m sure we’re pissing off your neighbors."

Jon chuckles to himself and adjusts his glasses. No need to freak Tim out the moment he opens the door. Jon knows what’s left is… upsetting.

Lieutenant growls as Jon reaches for the deadbolt, deep and low. He supposes she's not all that used to house visitors.

"It's alright, Lieutenant. It's Tim, a friend," Jon says, grin wide, as he opens the door.

"Hello, Jon," Tim says and Jon can _hear_ the smile in his voice, it just makes Jon smile all the more. There’s a pause before Tim asks, "Who's this, then?"

Jon steps to the side to let Tim into the house and puts a hand on Lieutenant's head. She still feels tense and continues on her low, threatening growl. He gives her a quick scratch behind an ear; it does little to quell her nerves.

"Oh this is Lieutenant. Helps me around given, well..." Jon gestures to his face. He’d done a messy job with it. He’d figured a chemical approach would be harder to turn back from than a… stabbing method. Easier to just hold your breath and dump a cup of Heavy Duty from the supply closet than build up the nerves to stab both eyes out individually. He was right on that account, but failed to take into consideration the rest of the skin around his eyes, that and the pain. More scars for the collection and more agony than he’s ever been in… probably. Maybe the worms take that trophy, though. Or… Jared. At least his body had the decency to pass out for the rib. No such luck for his eyes, maybe that was one last petty move from the Eye, keeping him awake and aware the whole time.

But, Jon's not dead and he’s free from whatever Elias’s plan was, so that's good enough for him. The withdrawal of severing his connection did its damnedest, though, especially when they couldn’t explain the additional symptoms to the doctors at the hospital. They backed off some when they realized they were from the archives and that Jon was the ex-patient that spent six months in a coma with no heartbeat or breathing. This wasn’t the first time the hospital turned a blind eye to medical emergencies coming from the institute. Questions turned into the best care they could offer for symptoms they didn’t understand. Lots of fluids, lots of painkillers. He’d spent two weeks in a drug-induced haze and he’d never felt so freed.  
  
"Sorry she's not used to many people visiting the house,” Jon continues. “I-"

Lieutenant lunges forward from under his hand. There's a shout of surprise from Tim and the sound of jaws snapping as Jon scrambles to snag her collar and pull her back.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tim’s yelling, punctuated by Lieutenant’s harsh snarling. There's the sharp sound of tearing fabric as Jon gets a good hold of her and wrestles her away from Tim.

" _SHIT_ ,” Jon struggles to keep Lieutenant back as she pulls against his grip. “I am _so_ Sorry. Did- did she bite you? She didn’t bite you did she? She's never like- I’ll pay for any-"

"No worries," Tim says, cutting Jon off. "Just got the edge of my shirt. No harm done."

Jon is not a strong man and Lieutenant is pulling hard into her collar, her deep growls now punctuated by barking, strained by the way she’s pressing the strap into her throat. "She's- I've never seen her like this before. I'm _really_ sorry. You know what, I don't need her around the house, let me go put her in the bedroom."

"Sure! Let her calm down and all," Tim says and Jon could just collapse with relief at how well he’s taking it. That could have been _really_ bad. Christ he doesn't know what’s gotten into her.

He starts to wrangle Lieutenant across the livingroom and it's more than a struggle, she keeps trying to wiggle out of his grip and her movements are _not_ making getting across the room easy. "Uh feel free to take a seat," Jon says as he pulls her into the other room.

He takes a breath of relief as he shuts the door. She continues to bark and snarl, claws scrabbling at the wood. He's going to have to call the place they got her from, see what the hell this is about. Maybe they need to do more training? But he really does love Lieutenant, and he’s worried if he tells them she got so aggressive something might happen to her.

"I'm really sorry about that," Jon says, readjusting his glasses since they got skewed in the struggle. "You're sure you don't mind the shirt?"

"Nothing a needle and thread can't fix," Tim laughs. Sounds like he's by the couch.

"I didn't know you sew?" Jon asks, making his way over to sit where he was before, noting the change of weight in the cushions as probably being Tim on the other side.

"Picked it up recently, actually. Gotta find some way to occupy my time now that I'm not beholden to some freaky eye god."

Jon offers an uncomfortable smile at that. "Right. How did-” he clears his throat. “How _did_ you get out? Hell. How did you survive the unknowing? Everyone just assumed you were dead."

"If you'd asked me I would have said the same!" Tim laughs. "No, I woke up in all that rubble, real messed up mind you, and managed to get to a hospital lobby before totally collapsing. Didn't really have any family to get in touch with and my most recent emergency contact was actually killed and replaced by a horrifying monstrosity! So..."

He trails off. Jon takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. He really messed up the lives of absolutely _everyone_ he came in contact with didn’t he? "You never showed back up at the archives after..."

Tim laughs at that, just a touch of the cruelty to his voice that had become distressingly familiar in the last few months Jon knew him. "No. No I wasn't gonna waltz back into that. Soon as I figured out whatever happened with the unknowing broke my connection I left London all together. Didn't have any ties left to say goodbye to, so didn't bother."

"I-oh. Right." Jon knows it's his fault Tim was in the situation in the first place, but hearing that still stung. They _were_ friends... once, but he can't blame Tim for not saying goodbye. Why risk getting wrapped back up in… all that? Jon sure could have used a friend, though. Thank god it’s over.

"Look I'm not gonna lie, Jon," Tim continues. "I was still rightly pissed off at you and I still don't forgive you for all the shit you pulled."

Silence hangs, punctuated only by Lieutenant's continued barking and scratching, and Jon pulls into himself a bit. "That is, very fair."

"But," Tim adds, drawing the word out, "I thought on it, and heard the institute was looking for a new archivist, meaning you either got out, or died. Didn’t find an obituary, so I thought, what the hell, let's put it behind us. Seems like you've paid your penance in full anyways."

Jon unconsciously brings a hand up to trail lightly over the harsh, molted scars around his eyes, fingers creeping just under the glasses. "That I... certainly have."

Tim hums and lets conversation die again. Jon scowls at the sound of his dog still losing her mind, breaking the moment.

"Lieutenant! Quiet!" he shouts in the general direction of the bedroom. He's met with a whine and further scratching. She's going to absolutely destroy the floor, not to mention the door. _How_ are they going to explain this to the landlord. _Sorry my supposedly well-trained guide dog you’re legally required to let me keep in my apartment went berserk when my friend who I thought was dead showed up to say hi._ He loves the dog, he really does, but _clearly_ they need to start bringing friends over more often if she gets this freaked out by being unfamiliar with it.

"I don't mind," Tim says. "She's protective, I get it."

"Yes, but I do wish Martin were here to keep her calm. So we can just talk? And I’m _sure_ our neighbors will lodge a noise complaint."

"So Martin _is_ out, then?"

Jon hums a conformation and says, "I don’t know where he’d be hiding in the apartment if he was still here. We needed more groceries. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you when he gets back, though."

"Sure," Tim says. "I’d be glad to talk with him again, too, but I did mostly come for you, Jon.”

Jon doesn’t quite know what to say to that, just turns to face Tim’s general direction and offers up a confused expression. “I’m not sure I-”  
  
“I wanted to make things right between us! We both survived and all. How _did_ you make it out of the blast? Not gonna lie, I figured we were both goners when I pressed that switch.”

“Ah-” Jon clenches his jaw, trying to figure out how to phrase ‘ _I was fear-eating monstrosity for a while, but don’t worry I’m better now_ ’ in a way Tim would respect.

“Eye stuff, right? More archives bull?”

“Y-yeah,” Jon awkwardly scratches his neck. “Honestly I’m more lucky the blinding didn’t kill me than the explosion.”

“So, what? You die in an explosion and come back as a monster and blind yourself to cope?”

“Not- Not exactly, but close enough… I found out blinding yourself breaks your connection to the Eye and, well…” Martin had insisted Jon was looking for a reason not to do it and at first he was, but… the more Jon’d thought about it the more sure he’d gotten that it had to happen. He’s glad he did it, in the end, drastic as it was.

“And everyone else in the archives? You just leave them behind?”

“I-” Jon can’t deny he didn’t think about the others when he did it. He didn’t consider Basira or Melanie or Daisy, just himself and Martin. “They got let go when I was. I don’t know why, but everyone else is free. I guess I was the… linchpin you could say.”

There’s a sharp pause, punctuated by Lieutenant’s continued whining and scratching. “Interesting,” Tim finally says. “Wish we’d known that _before_ the unknowing.”

Jon takes a deep breath. “Yes. But I’m not sure we could have stopped the apocalypse if I’d done this before… that.”

“Right, cause you were _so_ important to that whole process.”

Jon feels his stomach sink. Yeah. He should have figured forgiveness wouldn’t come that easily. He doesn’t really deserve a quick break given all _he_ ever did was get the guts together to dump drain cleaner in his face. That’s not enough to earn forgiveness and he was stupid to think otherwise. “I’m sorry, Tim. I didn’t... I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

“Course you didn’t. Doesn’t change that it happened, or the freaky powers you got along the way, or that you trapped us all in your _bullshit_.”

“I’m sorry…” Jon says, barely a whisper. He feels the couch shift with Tim as he leans towards him.

“Water under the bridge, my friend,” Tim says, tone shifting into something darker and claps a hand down on Jon’s shoulder.

His hand clunks hard when it hits Jon’s shoulder. It… it doesn’t feel like a hand.

Jon jerks to attention, and reaches up to touch Tim’s… hand. Wood. His hand is made of wood. Jon tries not to jump to conclusions as his touch travels up towards Tim’s wrist. His arm is cloth and squishes like a plush when Jon grips it.

This isn’t the Tim he knows.

There’s a fraction of a second so tense it could be cut with a knife, a second that lasts and eternity. Then, like a star imploding after that briefest moment of peace, everything happens at once.

Jon gets up and tries to run for the bedroom. He trips over the coffee table in his haste, knocking both it and himself to the ground. His head cracks against the floor and he doesn’t manage to pick himself up before he hears Tim’s footsteps close in, laughing cruelly in a way Jon’s never quite heard before, not like that.

Jon gasps in pain as Tim grabs him by his hair and pulls his head up. His legs scrabble for purchase on the hardwood floor.

“Really, Jon? No suspicion at all? You know. I was really all ready to go when you opened the door and saw what the Stranger did to me. Didn’t realize I’d get to have some fun, too.”

Lieutenant’s barking has escalated to a constant drone. The door’s so close, if Jon could just pull free.

“Tim- please,” His heart’s pounding so loud in his chest he’s sure whatever this _thing_ is can hear it. Tim’s not _Tim_. It was a trick. He was too trusting. “I’m so-”

“Oh none of _that_. Fraid you can’t apologize for this one, Jon.”

“I didn’t- I- Whatever you want, I can- I _don’t_ work for the Eye anymore. Don’t-”

Tim pulls back and slams Jon’s head against the floor, sending a kaleidoscoping wave of pain through his skull. Jon groans and slumps. Lieutenant’s frantic barking fades into white noise and then into nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the new tag "close depiction of a panic attack"
> 
> This is basically Martin Has A Panic Attack: The Chapter

Martin gets Jon’s text while he’s in the bread section trying to pick between rye and whole wheat. He’s about to just take both when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Martin sighs and puts both loaves in the basket. Toast is an easy breakfast and sandwiches are an easy lunch. He should get more cold cuts… He starts making his way over to the deli counter as he pulls out his phone. Probably Jon asking him to get something that wasn’t on the list. He wonders if they might be out of those crisps Jon likes. Martin had forgotten to check before heading out.

_ Jon _ _ ~ somethings at the door I’m guessing stranger it says it’s tim _

Martin feels his heart skip a beat. It’s a miss-type. They happen all the time with voice-to-text. He doesn't know… what it might be a mistype _of_. But it’s fine. He’s sure it’s fine. He doesn’t want to think of what it means that it might not be fine.

_ Martin _ _ ~ Jon? _

_ Martin _ _ ~ What? _

_ Martin _ _ ~ Who’s at the door? _

Martin stands there in the middle of the aisle waiting, waiting, waiting for a response. It’s fine. It’s a miss-type. Or Jon’s being paranoid again and it’s just one of their neighbors. People push by him with glares for blocking the way, but he remains staring at his phone. Hoping and hoping for those three little dots indicating Jon’s responding. 

Three minutes tick by and they never come. Panic starts to really set in deeper and deeper with every second, thick and twisting in his gut. Martin doesn’t bother to wait any longer and curses himself for the time he’s already wasted.   
  
He runs by an employee on his way out and unceremoniously shoves his basket into her hands.   


“Wh-” she starts to protest and some part of him feels bad for dumping more work into her hands. The rest of him is far too preoccupied to care.

“Sorry!” He shouts back as he runs for the door, not particularly caring if people need to jump out of his way. “Uh- Family emergency!”

He took the underground to get to the market like always, but Martin is not wasting time waiting for the train. That’s a twenty minute ride  _ if  _ the train is already at the platform when he gets down there. He doesn’t have that kind of time.

He wishes he could just. Call the  _ police _ or. Or and  _ ambulance _ or something a  _ normal _ person in a  _ normal  _ horrible situation can do. But he knows how the police handle spooky problems tied to the archives and he knows they’ll sit there twiddling their thumbs because they don’t want to get sectioned. They’d never make it before he did and they wouldn’t be much help once they got there, he knows that much.

He frantically hails down a taxi, cussing every time one passes with an occupied light on. He finally manages to get one to pull over, too slow, too slow, and Martin actually strugs to open the door in his haste. It’s still not fast enough. Nothing he does will be fast enough if Jon’s already in trouble. He can feel the fear twisting in his chest. The fear of losing Jon, of the nice life they’ve carved out, the one they’ve only had for a few months, being violently ripped away.

The driver gives him a look and Martin realizes he never actually gave him an address, just got into the taxi and started hyperventilating.

“O-oh,” Deep breaths Martin. Deep breaths. “Uh- 59 Longridge Road.”

The man nods and starts tapping it into the gps. All Martin can think is how long it’s taking. Every second’s being stretched into an eternity and any moment could be Jon’s last while Martin sits here in the back of a taxi pulling at his hair.

“Please hurry. It’s an emergency,” Martin adds, more to calm his own nerves than anything and to know he’s done what he can. He sinks back into the seat, curling his hands on his thighs for lack of a better place to put them. After a moment he fumbles through his bag and pulls out his phone to look anxiously at Jon’s lack of response. He feels like he’s going to be sick and has absolutely nothing to occupy his mind beyond what horrible could be happening to Jon while he just sits less-than-patiently in a carriage.

He could be suffering, tortured by whatever decided to show up. The Stranger. They’d all figured it’d need more time to lick its wounds after the collapse of its ritual. Apparently not. They’re looking to get back at Jon for ruining their ritual, they must be. Martin has a  _ very  _ clear image in his head of the tendencies of that group. He knows full well what Nikola wanted to do with Jon when she took him the first time. He nearly pukes right there at the image it conjures up.

Or maybe he’s already dead. God he could be gone. What if Martin shows up to find Jon safe and fine but it  _ isn’t _ Jon, it’s just some monster that’s replaced him just like Sasha. And Martin lives for months with the monster that killed Jon, none the wiser that it’s playing with him. He tries to think of what Jon looks like, what he sounds like. He remembers, he  _ knows  _ he does, but what if it’s already put new thoughts in his head? What if he’s already picturing the monster and he’ll never remember what Jon was really like ever again? What if the absent ‘ _ I’m heading to the market _ ,’ was the last words he’ll ever say to Jon? What if that was the last time he ever heard Jon’s real voice?

He’s hyperventilating again, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away with the back of his sleeve. Another horrible thought goes through Martin’s head and he starts urgently searching his contacts until he comes to Basira’s and presses the call button.

“Come on, come on, come on,” He mutters, reaching forward to shut the flimsy barrier between himself and the driver for what little privacy it may provide. “ _ Pick up _ .”

Finally, “Martin?”

“Basira!” Martin half-shouts into the phone. He catches the carriage driver’s curious eye in the rearview mirror and Martin scowls back at him. The man’s expression flattens and he turns away.

“Don’t shout in my ear,” Basira says. “What?”

“It’s Jon. I think he’s in trouble. He texted me and now he’s not responding and there’s a Stranger…  _ thing  _ at the door and he’s probably already  _ dead _ and I don’t-”

“Martin,” Basira cuts off his rambling, tone sharp but hinting at concern. “Slow down. What happened?”

Martin takes a deep, shaky breath. He won’t cry. He won’t. It does nothing to quell the tight, sickening knotting in his chest. Jon’s dead. He’s dead. Martin just knows it. Why is he even bothering.

“Martin. You’re breathing directly into the phone.”

“Hhh-” Martin lets out a long breath away from the speaker. He needs to calm down in this moment right here or he won’t be able to do anything. “Right. Right. Sorry. I just-”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I was out shopping.” He takes another breath. “Jon’s home alone. He texted me while I was in the market saying  _ something’s  _ at our door claiming to be… well... Tim.” He pauses again to breathe. “Probably an agent of the Stranger? I think it wants revenge and it might come after everyone else too. You’re the only one who’s number I have so I-”

“I can be there in twenty-five minutes,” Basira says and hangs up.

Martin makes a frustrated sound and glares angrily at his phone as if it will offer any help. Maybe if he stares long enough it’ll turn into a teleportation device or a direct line to Jon’s vitals.  _ Anything  _ helpful at all. No such luck, though. Basira won’t even come close to beating him there. Martin  _ really _ wishes he had Georgie’s number or Daisy’s. Hell the only reason he has Basira’s is sheer luck they had to communicate plans for stopping the Unknowing outside of work hours. Even if he  _ did  _ have their numbers what help would it be? Just more people rushing to the apartment? None of them even live close.

He hopes Basira at least contacts everyone to tell them to watch out. Just in case. God what if everyone else has already been picked off and it’s just a matter of time before it gets Basira and him too.

He doesn’t have anything else to  _ do _ . Just stare out the window and hope upon hope Jon’s alright. Maybe it’s a false alarm. Maybe it’s fine. He finds himself having a hard time believing that. Their world isn’t kind. It never has been. More than likely Jon’s already dead…

No.  _ No _ . He  _ can’t _ let himself think like that. Even if something’s happened he can fix it. He can... He’ll find a way. This was  _ their _ happy ending. The freedom they  _ earned _ , the  _ happiness _ they earned, that Jon maimed himself to get. He’s not letting this be it. He can’t… he... If it’s over he doesn't… What would he even do… He wouldn’t...

He feels himself shutting down and tries texting Jon again. Still no response to the last message and that makes his stomach drop all over again.

_ Martin _ ~  _ Jon? _

_ Martin _ _ ~ Jon I’m coming. Basira too I think. Just hold on _

Maybe he just can’t make enough noise to text back; maybe he’s hiding or… or playing along with whatever game the monster is. Or maybe Jon’s phone died. He’s never been good at keeping it charged. Maybe it… Martin groans, really wishing Jon had read receipts turned on so Martin would at least know if he even _ saw _ his texts. He stares at his phone, pleading desperately for the indication Jon’s working on a message back. It doesn’t come.

By the time the taxi pulls up to their apartment building Martin is fully back to feeling like he’s going to throw up. It was only a ten minute ride, but that’s too long. It’s been too long.

“Thank you, keep the change, bye,” Martin says hastily, shoving cash through the barrier window to the frustrated and confused sputtering of the driver. He’s not sure how much money he just threw at the man, but he knows it was more than enough. Probably double what he owed, honestly. He finds he really doesn’t care.

Martin takes the steps to the building door two at a time and runs through the lobby with little more than a glance to the door man, David. A small part of his brain notes it’s a very good thing David’s still alive. He hadn’t even considered what the monster could have done to the poor man to get to their apartment. Maybe it’s a good sign David’s fine? Maybe it means Jon’s alright? That it  _ was  _ a false alarm.

Or maybe it can fucking teleport or make itself invisible or something. He stops and back tracks a few steps to look at David, pausing for a single precious moment. What if this moment is what decides if Jon lives or dies- no. No he needs as much information as he can get before he just goes running in.

“David? Are you… alright?”

David looks confused up from his magazine, pushing back in his chair until it’s leaning back on two legs. “...Yeaaah?”

“D-did anyone come through? For me and Jon?”

“Yeah… some dude.” He scratches the stubble on his chin and Martin wishes he would  _ please  _ talk faster. “Had an ID and everything and he knew your full names so I figured…” he offers up a shrug. “Had your numbers in his phone too. I checked the records.”

“And he wasn’t…  _ weird _ or anything?” Martin shouldn’t be wasting time. But if it’s still in the apartment… better to know what he’s walking into. The monster had their phone numbers??

“I had this funny feeling when he left. When he walked up too… Like. Something was off? Made me a little nervous but… Feeling faded so.” He shrugs again.

“Right,” Martin says curtly. Why wouldn’t David  _ call  _ one of them or- uhg. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t bother sticking around longer, just turns and runs. Maybe it’s not that bad… maybe it’s not- He doesn’t bother with the elevator, just bolts up the steps. He should be well out of breath before he even makes it to the fifth floor, but he’s running on adrenaline and by the time he hits the third he starts hearing the distant barking and it only drives him to move faster.

The door’s closed, which would be a good sign, if not for Lieutenant’s incessant barking from inside. For such a normally mild-mannered dog that is  _ not  _ reassuring.

The door’s locked. And Martin starts fumbling for his keys. At the bottom of his bag. Why do they always end up at the bottom of the bag. Eventually he just upturns the sack onto the ground and lunges for the keys when they jangle out. He’s struggling to put it in the lock when the next door over slams open and an elderly woman storms out.

“Hey!” She shouts and Martin doesn’t look up from trying to get the key into the hole properly. He’s shaking too much. Why does it need to be so difficult?

“ _ Hey _ !” She says more forcefully.

“ _ WHAT _ ,” Martin snaps, glaring angrily at Mrs. Wellborows. He doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t have the  _ patience  _ for this. For all his niceties he directs towards them he really,  _ really  _ does hate their neighbors. Rich pricks.

“Your  _ dog _ ’s been barking for almost  _ twenty minutes _ and  _ no one’s  _ answered the door. If you don’t shut it up I’m  _ going _ to report you to-”

“Oh  _ fuck off _ ,” Martin shouts and finally manages to jam the key into the lock. He wrenches the door open so forcefully it might have damaged the hinges and slams it behind him hard enough to shake the photos on the wall. Noise complaints be damned. No one answered. She’s been banging on the door and one answered. He’s going to be sick.

“Jo-”

He slips and falls almost immediately on rushing into the apartment.

Martin groans and rolls to his side to pick himself up, the shock momentarily jolting him out of his panic. Thankfully he managed to avoid cracking his head on the floor, but his arm and side are definitely going to bruise badly. He looks back towards his feet to see what he’d tripped on and is presented with… scattered fluff?

Martin spins himself around to pick up and inspect some of the loose plush. It looks like the kind of thing you’d find in a child’s stuffy… It’s… What is it  _ doing  _ here. Jon could have slipped on-

_ Jon _ .

Martin haistally drops the stuffing and shakes off the static. He scrambles to pick himself up off the floor, slipping a few additional times before actually managing to get to his feet. Once up he can actually take in the room around him.

The coffee table’s been flipped over, a mug shattered across the floor, still wet with the tea that’d been inside. It’s seeped into the rug. The window that leads to the fire escape is open, curtains softly billowing in a gentle breeze. The bedroom door’s closed and he can hear Lieutenant scrabbling at the wood, barking her head off. They always keep all the doors open in the apartment.

Most importantly. No sign of Jon.

No body, either, which is good. Maybe. God... if he’s just  _ gone _ -

Martin takes a breath and steals himself. First things first. He goes to let Lieutenant out before she has a genuine heart attack and to at least stop Mrs. Wellborow’s continued punding on the door. Lieutenant bolts out of the room and immediately starts sniffing around, whining all the way. Martin watches her for a moment, just to make sure she isn’t scrabbling at some place only she recognizes as where Jon is. When it’s clear she’s just generally taking a gather of things like he is, he leaves her to it and goes to search the rest of the apartment, hope upon hope Jon  _ might _ still be there.

He knows Lieutenant would probably head right there if Jon was around. He knows that. But- He just- He needs to see for himself. He needs to… If Jon’s gone...

“ _ Jon _ !?” Martin calls into the bedroom. He almost trips over the box pulled out next to the closet. Christ the entire apartment is a minefield. What the hell was Jon doing with the box of tapes? And why didn’t he put it away afterwards?

Or maybe it was the monster. Christ what if it was Elias or Peter or… or that  _ Simon  _ fellow. What if this was more than just a monster getting revenge. What if-

Jon’s not in the bedroom.

“Jon!?” Martin calls from the doorway and into the rest of the apartment. He’s not in the kitchen and not the bathroom either. Martin even checks the living room closet, just in case. No sign of Jon. He’s not anywhere. He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s gone-

Martin can feel himself really starting to shut down, breath coming fast and panicked. Jon’s gone. He’s  _ gone _ and  _ probably  _ dead. Martin has no idea what to do. What can he do? He’s not some big hero  _ regardless _ of what Peter was feeding into his head. He’s never… saved anyone or been much help when the institute got attacked. He didn’t even  _ go  _ to the Unknowing. He has no idea what he’s doing.

Martin slumps to sit on the floor, hands twisted into his hair, his grip bordering on painful. He can feel his chest tightening and he feels like he can’t breathe, like some invisible force is pressing on his sternum harder and harder until the weight is unbearable. Martin’s breath comes short and shallow. He can feel the tears starting to well up and soon they’re spilling thickly down his cheeks. Jon’s gone. He’s gone and there’s nothing Martin can do about it. Two months. That’s all they got. They had two months of peace and freedom from the world’s horrors and they were idiots to think it would last, that nothing would come knocking.

_ He _ was stupid. Stupid for thinking he could have a happy little ending, for thinking this could work out. Stupid, _ stupid _ Martin; always too oblivious and hopeful. Maybe Peter was right to pull him away. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved with everyone else. At least the lies were easier and he knew he could  _ control  _ the situation.

Martin’s gasping thickly for breath, one hand still twisted in his hair and the other clutching at his chest when he feels something wet and rhythmic on his arm. Lieutenant.

She’s licking his shirt sleeve and whining, pausing every few strokes to nuzzle into his chest. She switches over to one of his hands and the direct contact is an anchor in the crashing waves. Martin reaches out and pulls the black lab into his lap. He holds her tight and she starts licking at his face. The steady feeling is different and stabilizing and something to count his breaths to. In and hold and out. In and hold and out. He’s no use to Jon in a pile on the floor. eventually Martin calms down enough to say, “Thanks Lieutenant. You’re a good girl.”

Martin sniffs heavy and wipes at his nose. His glasses got all fogged up during the panic attack and he pulls them down to wipe them off on his shirt. He groans as he slips them back on. What is he going to  _ do _ ?

There’s a knock on the door and Martin practically jumps out of his skin. He scowls and carefully picks Lieutenant off his lap as he gets up. She trots along at his heel, occasionally whining and nuzzling at his leg.

“Mrs. Wellborows I  _ told  _ you to fuck-” Martin throws the door open, “-off… Basira.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and pushes her way in. “Who’s Mrs. Wellborows? That old lady I told to piss off?”

“Yeah… Our- Our neighbor..” Lieutenant watches Basira defensively, not growling, but tail up and chest out. Martin watches as Basira starts looking around the apartment, taking stock of the shattered cup and the overturned coffee table, far more clinical than he’d managed. “He’s gone, Basira…” Martin rubs at his eyes. His glasses are going to fog again. “We’re too late… He’s...”

He puts his head in his hands and can feel the panic welling up again when Basira says, “Your dog.”

“She’s-uh… Jon’s dog… technically.” He sniffs hard to pull back to welling tears. “Lieutenant.”

“No. Just... Look,” Basira says and that actually gets Martin to look up and readjust his glasses. Lieutenant’s gone to pacing the apartment, nose to the ground. She keeps stalling near the bedroom door, next to where the cup shattered. She circles once, twice, makes a small ‘boof’ noise and then trots over to the door. She sniffs around the door, much more frantically and then swings back around to the bedroom.

When she starts the circuit again Martin watches until she’s moving towards the front door again before turning to Basira again. “Right. She was here for it... I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair, talking helps to quell the tide of panic. “I found her in the bedroom? We don’t… we don’t close the doors in the apartment. So that was…  _ weird _ . She was having a fit when I got home.”

“Was the front door locked?”

“Y-Yes? I don’t see what this has to do with-”

“So Lieutenant was in bedroom, where she’s never put away before, and the door was locked?” Basira goes over to the front and opens the door. She takes a moment looking over the frame before turning back and saying, “No signs of break in.”

“So the monster was, what, polite before it took Jon? Or maybe it just came through the open window when Jon didn’t answer the door? The livingroom’s a mess so there was  _ clearly  _ a fight and I have no idea what happened or where he is or if he’s even-”

“Martin.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“He’s probably alive.”

“How would you know.”

“Because he’s not here. Whatever did this, it took him. So he’s probably still alive, for now.”

“Great! So he can suffer for however long it decides to keep him around while we struggle to find him?”

“We can find him.”

“How!? Basira?” Martin snaps. He’s done being strung along. If she would just  _ explain _ what she’s talking about. He is so sick of people leaving him out of the loop. Jon is  _ his _ boyfriend and she can’t keep him distanced from this.

She points and Martin’s glare follows her hand to Lieutenant, still pacing around the room. She’s taken to scratching at the floor near the front door, around where Martin found the fluff. “Hey, hey, hey,” He says, going over to pull her away from the spot. He scratches the sides of her face soothingly and wishes he could ask her what she saw. “Stop that.”

She already did a massive number on the bedroom door and floor, Martin doesn’t need more to deal with right now, but she just whines at him and wiggles in his hold. He lets her go and she goes back to sniffing around, this time stalling around the couch. He doesn’t stop her from putting her paws up to sniff the cushions, he needs to pick his battles and ‘no paws on the couch’ is not even close to one of his top priorities.

She barks once before going to sniff around the bedroom door again, but now she takes a different trail. She goes slow, nose to the floor and up to the window. She starts barking with her paws up on the windowsill. The sound echos around the alley outside.

“We can use the dog... Lieutenant. And I already called Daisy, she can help.”

“What?”

“You asked how we could find him,” Basira shrugs. “Daisy’s good at finding people and she worked on hunting the Stranger’s minions before. And your dog was here, she has a scent for the thing that took him.”

“O-oh…” Martin glances towards Lieutenant. She’s still periodically whining as she circles around the apartment. He lightly bites the inside of his cheek. Jon’s probably still alive. They can… they can find him. He takes a breath, please don’t let this backfire, and actively chooses to hope. They can do this. “Right…” Martin rubs at his eyes and then repeats himself, this time with more determination. “Right.”

“We’ll find him Martin,” Basria says. “And we _will_ put down the thing that took him.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the added tags ^^;

Jon comes to slowly and with a pounding headache. The throbbing begins his temples and spiderwebs across his skull. His head lolls over his chest, every movement sending another thick wave of pain through his brain.

His breath comes shaky and slow, each one a labor as his faculties slowly return. Something’s shoved in his mouth, tied back around his head, but he wasn't planning on screaming. No. It's probably too late for that, he knows that. And it's not as if talking in of itself will do him much good these days. All the gag is managing is adding more pressure to his headache.

He tries to bring a hand up to cradle his head and finds his wrists bound. A bit more slight shifting and he puts together that his ankles are too. Tied to a chair again, a wonderfully tired and true method.

He lets the chair continue to support his weight, too sore to really contemplate picking up his chest, although the side missing ribs aches from the strain. He's sure he won't have to deal with that much longer; soon he'll have much bigger concerns, so he doesn't bother to relieve it.

The air around him smells stale, like dust and cobwebs. He shivers at the thought. Hopefully not actual cobwebs… That would be… He wouldn't be surprised, though, given his luck with things. It  _ is  _ about time the Web came back for its extra pound of flesh. He's fairly sure he  _ did  _ ruin the Mother’s plans after all… probably. Or maybe he was meant to end up here and it’s all part of the greater weave.

Given the persona chosen, though, when the  _ thing  _ took him, he's still fairly confident this is the Stranger’s work. He remembers the last time an agent of the Stranger tied him to a chair and can't quite contain the way his breath starts to hitch, panicked and shaking. It's not so much the death he fears as the pain he's sure will come with it. He doubts they have much use for his skin now, not after the ritual failed, but he doesn't doubt they'd still jump at the chance. If only because the Spiral denied them so long ago… or. Not that long ago, really.

At least last time he could see, dim lights notwithstanding. It brought little comfort, staring into misshapen wax faces, but it was something to focus his attention on. Sometimes they moved or twitched and he could never be sure if it was really happening or simply a product of hallucination after weeks on weeks of near-isolation. Probably both. He never thought he’d find himself grateful for that.

But this? Here the only thing to focus on is his own breathing, the pounding in his skull, and the rough abrasions on his wrists where the ropes press too tight. He doesn't remember it hurting so much last time, but then, he'd already been so deep within the Eye’s gaze by that point, he's sure it soothed the mortal aches. No such luxury this go around and he's quite sure in time he’ll lose feeling in his hands.

Maybe it’s not the Stranger, instead a different dread power entirely, but even with the End he can not expect a quick or peaceful death. Perhaps the Lonely would be gracious enough to offer such things as numbness before the final blow, but he won't hold out hope. No, more likely he'll be flayed, kept supernaturally alive through the full process and die in burning agnony. Whatever horrors lie here, this is it.

He finds himself not caring much for his own sake. He was ready to die when he blinded himself; he knew it was a possibility. This is just… delayed results he supposes. It was nice to have peace while it lasted. He worries for Martin, though. Hopefully Martin can recover from this, won't go back to Peter’s waiting hands. Martin’s smarter than that, Jon’s fully aware, but the Lonely had gripped him tightly and Jon's sure it hasn't entirely let go quite yet.

He stays like that for a while, mulling over his fate, over Martin’s. It's hard to tell how much time has passed by any measure beyond the growing stiffness in his limbs and the slowly fading feeling in his hands. It's so quiet, the only sound a low mechanical hum that might be a radiator or something of the sort. It doesn't seem like it's in the same room as Jon, or if it is the room must be incredibly cluttered to muffle the noise. Not impossible, but more likely it's just beyond a wall.

It's been… at least a few hours, if his somewhat subsided headache and aching limbs are anything to go by, when Jon picks up the sound of distant footsteps. He wonders if they've brought water, his mouth feels painfully dry.

There's the slow creak of a door opening and then closing again somewhere to Jon’s right. His heart rate kicks up as the footsteps close in and Jon doesn't manage to contain the muffled scream that’s shocked out of him when something suddenly tips the chair back.

He heaves for breath around the cloth in his mouth. He didn't hit the ground, whatever it is must be holding the chair back so it only rests on the back legs, leaving Jon disoriented and renewing the harsh pounding in his head.

“Oh good,” the thing says, far too close to Jon’s ear for comfort. “You're awake.”

It still sounds like Tim and Jon feels bile rise in the back of his throat. This is unfairly cruel, to torment him with the voice of a friend. Not that he'd expect anything less, not that he really deserves anything less either. He’s not even sure he deserves to still call Tim a friend after all he put him through.

The thing with Tim's voice sets the chair back down, sending another wave of nausea through Jon’s system as his head drops forward again. 

“Was worried I might've hit you too hard,” the thing says. It's tone is chipper, but laced with a distinct threat, like a thread pulled taught and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. “Guess you can't take it like you used to, huh?”

Jon doesn't even dignify the thing with a groan, much less an attempt to talk around the gag. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, well, as shut as it can be given his position. He knows it can feel his fear, regardless of what he says, revel in it and  _ feed. _

“Oh come on Jon.” A wooden hand brushes the side of Jon's face, prompting him to flinch violently and let out a shuddering breath. Despite his careful silence, he's shaking like a leaf.

_ Just get it over with _ , he thinks.  _ Please just get it over with _ . Deep down he knows full well his prayers will go unanswered. If this one is anything like Nikola it will toy with him for God knows how long.

“I've thought about this a lot you know,” the thing continues. Jon can hear the clunking of its feet as it slowly circles the chair. “What I wanted to do. For a while I just thought, maybe just go back to the institute.  _ Talk _ . Realized pretty quickly you couldn't  _ fix  _ this.” It laughs cruelly and Jon bites back a noise of distress. It sounds just like Tim. He'd say this is torture, but he knows what's coming.

“That's when I started to get mad,” it continues. “It's your  _ fucking  _ fault, dragging me into this. And then I found out you  _ lived _ ? that  _ you  _ got to walk away scott free while I had to exist like  _ this _ ? Bullshit.”

The chair suddenly flips to the side, kicked over by the thing, sending Jon to smack against the floor. With no way of stopping himself, his head and shoulder hit hard, sending another wave of nausea and agony through him. There’s a moment where he just lies there gagging against the carpet, trying to curl in on himself, but stopped by the rope binding him. His shoulder feels like it’s on fire and he wonders if it’s been dislocated.

Jon doesn't know what it's  _ talking  _ about. He figured it'd be mad about the Unknowing, here to exact its revenge. Dragging it into things? Existing like  _ what _ ? He tries to protest, but his words are muffled beyond comprehension by the gag and the attempt to make sound just makes his head throb more.

“Shut up,” it snaps and Jon returns to his panicked silence, breath coming heavy and interspersed with involuntary groans of pain. “I thought of  _ so many _ things I wanted to do to you. Even considered giving you button eyes! Make us match. Didn't know what taking your eyes would do to you and your freaky horror god, but I figured if nothing else it would  _ hurt _ . Did the job yourself though didn't you? ‘S fine. It was over dramatic, a bit emo if I’m being honest.”

Again, without warning, the thing grabs the chair and lifts it back into an upright position, barely giving Jon a moment to reorient himself before it continues talking.

“Well then I figured I'd just let the moment take me when I got to it and started searching. I did  _ try _ the institute of course. Certainly didn't expect them to be looking for a whole new archivist. But you! Weren't! Dead! So  _ I  _ got to wondering how you got out.”

Jon shouts as the thing grabs a handful of hair and  _ pulls _ yanking his head over the back of the chair and making his head  _ scream  _ its agony. He’s probably multiple times concussed at this point and he would love if this thing would give his poor brain a break.

“Were you just lying the whole time then? About  _ you  _ being trapped?” It's practically yelling, any tone of pleasantry gone and replaced with just a hint of… almost sadness. It’s too loud, making his ears ring painfully. “Always working with Elias from the start? Playing with us the whole time? When we went out for drinks were you just laughing to yourself? Poor gullible us, right? Thinking we were  _ friends _ .”

Jon squirms against the grip on his hair, painfully aware of how exposed his throat is. After a moment it lets go and Jon lurches forward, panting around the cloth and shivering. 

“Funny thing is,” it's words are quieter now, “some perverted,  _ warped _ , part of me wishes you could see me. It  _ likes _ how afraid you are, but it's… it's not the kind of fear I  _ want _ . Isn't that sick?”

It goes quiet and stops moving around. The only noise is Jon’s heavy breathing and the distant sound of that radiator faintly rumbling in the distance. The silence stretches out, each second making Jon dread what's coming next more and more.

Eventually the thing that sounds like Tim just says, “ _ Fuck _ . This is-”

It doesn’t finish the sentence and Jon makes a fearful questioning sound, but there's no response, just the  _ clunk _ ,  _ clunk _ ,  _ clunk  _ of the thing walking away. It opens the door and closes it on its way out.

Jon groans and slumps back against the chair. This is hell. And the worst part is he doesn't know what the  _ hell _ the thing is talking about. Does. Does it  _ want  _ something? Aside from Jon’s prolonged suffering that is? It talks like... It talks like they  _ knew  _ each other. It talks just like Tim. Or at least. How Tim talked by the end. But it isn’t… The NotThem didn’t play with it’s victims like  _ this _ . It feels… He almost protests the thought given the current state of things, but it feels  _ sloppy _ . Like it really doesn’t know what it’s doing, like  _ it  _ doesn’t even fully know what it wants.

The silence stretches on. He thinks it goes longer this time, but it's still desperately hard to tell. Eventually Jon takes to humming to himself, just to fill the space, for something to do. No one and nothing comes in to stop him and he wonders if he's been abandoned, left behind to die in his own time. He's so thirsty.

Maybe Helen will take it on herself to appear, like Michael did what feels like an eternity ago. Probably not, though. He wouldn't be so lucky. Maybe she'll pop in to torment him, taunt him with the prospect of freedom and let him know how  _ exactly  _ Martin’s suffering without him, truth in her words or not. Probably the latter all things considered. Can’t expect truth from the  _ Twisting Deceit _ .

Martin.

Jon hopes the others can be there for him. Basira and Daisy and Melanie and Georgie. Anything to keep him from slipping, from falling back into Peter’s waiting grasp.

This is Jon's fault ultimately. He was too ready to believe Tim had actually survived, that he really wanted to reconnect. Even with his initial paranoia about the situation, Jon had been lulled into a wonderfully false sense of security by their brief respite of peace. He’d actually believed, foolishly, that the universe had decided to do him a kindness.

It could have been worse, he supposes. It could have been Elias coming knocking, here to somehow restore Jon’s connection to the Eye, to drag him back into a living nightmare of terror and world-ending consequences. Was severing himself selfish? What happens when another ritual starts? Will someone be there to stop it? In leaving has he simply damned another poor soul from the institute to the same life he led for months?

Elias will find another archivist, that much Jon's sure of. Maybe whoever it is will do a better job than him, he was never  _ really  _ qualified for the position. And maybe they’ll actually be able to embrace the monstrous side. Or maybe they'll fail even worse than he did and the world will be plunged into eternal terror in a few years anyways. It won't matter much to him now anyways. Not once this thing kills him.

He's lost most of the feeling in his hands, particularly on the side where his shoulder hit the floor. That's probably not a good thing, especially now that he won't supernaturally heal. He  _ thinks  _ he might be able to flex his fingers if he really tries, but the effort sends pin pricking pain up his arm and he gives up. That would be a cruel joke wouldn't it, getting out of this but losing his hands.

How long has it been?

Jon's well enough lost in his own thoughts that he doesn't hear the footsteps approaching again, not until the creak of the door opening snaps him back. He doesn't hear it close and is immediately on edge all over again.

The footsteps stop somewhere in front of Jon. There's a loud rustling noise interspersed with a few louder clunking sounds like someone dropping a sack of potatoes, or perhaps a particularly fabric-y backpack.

“This is fucked,” Tim's voice says and Jon can’t keep himself from flinching. It sounds like it might be on the floor, across the room, but it’s behavior has been unpredictable. It could be a ploy to throw Jon off, bring him into a false sense of security.

Jon is inclined to agree with what it said, though he doesn’t make a sound to add to the ‘conversation’. Far more, ahem, ‘fucked’ by Jon's perspective than he can imagine it is for the monster. Having trouble making a kill is it? Oh what a proper shame. Poor monster unable to bring itself to torture him the ‘right’ way. Does it feel  _ bad _ for impersonating his dead friend, kidnapping him, and threatening to make him suffer before killing him? Jon finds himself scowling at the floor, not bothering to pick his head up.

“I was  _ so  _ sure. And so…  _ angry. _ I still am. But I can't just…” More rustling sounds. “I can't do it. You're still…”

Jon doesn't move. He's barely listening.

“This is stupid. Everyone else got let free and I'm. I'm just… This.”

Silence stretches out. The longer it goes the more anxious Jon gets. He realizes fairly quickly the only sound of breathing is his own; not especially shocking given the context, but disturbing nonetheless.

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the thing to drop this pitty act and just end it already. Oh, but if Jon's dead he can't be afraid anymore right? Silly him, thinking this would be over quickly and not drawn out as long as his body will withstand. Maybe it'll just let him die of thirst. That would probably be less painful than some prominent alternatives.

He hears more rustling and a series of clunks that probably mean the thing is standing up. His heart rate kicks up again. He keeps wondering if this is it. If this is the moment it snaps and really starts to make him suffer. Or maybe it’ll leave again, draw the tension out so thin the weight of a landing fly could snap it.

The footsteps approach. Death it is then. Jon strains against the bindings again, gasping as he jostles his injured shoulder, sending fire burning through his arm. He’s sure it will continue to torture him first, peel his skin off in chunks to get the best meal of fear it can out of him. 

He flinches hard when a wooden hand brushes his face. It shouldn't be able to move like that, like it’s skin and bone and muscle. He can only escape so far, though, as the hand wraps behind his head, the other coming up to join it.

“Would you stop-” the thing mutters as Jon practically thrashes in the seat, adrenaline pushing him through the pain in his most definitely dislocated shoulder. “You're going to fall over. Let me just. There-”

The tension of the gag loosens and pulls away, leaving Jon in a coughing fit. His jaw’s sore from holding that position for so long. His mouth being suddenly empty only emphasizes how dry it is and once he manages to calm down, get his breathing under control, he sits there, chest hanging against his remaining bindings, and heaving for breath.

“I guess you can't, like, probe my brain anymore, huh?” The thing says. “Just… don't scream… Won't do any good, anyways.”

Jon's not sure he has the energy left to scream regardless. Instead he just groans and circles his jaw around, trying to work out the stiffness and pin needle pain. This isn’t what he expected. Calm before the storm, maybe. This is far from over.

“Please…” he manages to rasp out, throat protesting at the effort. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Talking like that. It's not your voice to use.” He sounds far more defiant than he feels. But he can't. He can't keep listening to Tim's voice like this, warped and stolen by the very thing he despised, gave his life trying to end.

“It's not-” the thing starts laughing and it doesn't sound like Tim anymore. There's a hint there, of Tim's joy that once echoed faintly through the archives, before their lives went to hell, but there's a warp to it. It's not quite right, almost inhuman in tone. He is reminded suddenly and starkly of the faint mechanical buzz of a voice box one might find in a children’s toy. It sets Jon even more on edge.

“God you really don't get it do you? I  _ am _ Tim, Jon. What the Circus deemed fit to leave me…”

There’s a mournful edge to his mocking tone, but Jon’s brain is working too fast to actually process the intricacies of that much. It explains how he talked, beyond just the sound of his voice, but the way he acted like Tim, how he knew things like it happened directly to him. But he's not- Tim is. No. No, just another  _ trick _ . He can't. He’s not  _ doing _ this again, falling for the thing’s games. He’s not-

“Tim died,” Jon says, teeth gritted.

“So did you apparently…”

Jon opens his mouth to argue, but it's… He’s?... not wrong necessarily. He'd been thinking of it as a coma. Everyone's been calling it that, but it wasn't really, was it? No no he was just not quite human enough to die like he was supposed to by that point. Medically, by every definition but brain function, he was dead for six months.

“I saw the papers,” the creature still claiming to be Tim says. “Institute tried to cover you up, but a few got through. The sleeping zombie man. No heartbeat, no breathing, just an active brain. You died Jon, and then you came back. Is it really so hard to believe I did too?”

“You- But you weren't…  _ How? _ ” There’s no real compulsion behind Jon’s question, not anymore, but the buzz of the word on his tongue still makes him shiver. Old habits, long worn muscle paths… It makes him feel guilty, shameful all over again, even in the face of… whatever this is.

The monster… Tim?... sighs without air, a remnant of when he once needed to breathe. “I don't know. I... I don't remember much after the blast. It  _ did  _ take me out. I'm sure of it. I just…

“I Woke up in the back of that damned delivery truck… He- it... the thing let me go easy enough. Didn't seem to care much. And I was proper freaking out. I mean-” He starts laughing again, he sounds hysterical.

“I pressed that trigger thinking I was dying to avenge my brother, taking you out with me as a little bonus treat, and I woke up as a  _ fucking _ puppet. Just cloth and wood! It's  _ messed up _ . Oh but I can still go places, exist in public. People just don't  _ see _ me right. They didn't know why I made them so uncomfortable unless I wanted them to know, but  _ everyone  _ avoids me. I can  _ feel  _ their fear, their discomfort at being near me.

“One guy…,” another boarder-line manic chuckle. “There was this guy who saw me walking by and started  _ really  _ panicking and. And I wanted him to freak out  _ more _ . I-I don’t know why. I followed him to his fucking car. He was so scared and I  _ liked  _ it. I  _ wanted  _ him to be scared of me. He looked at me in his rearview mirror and I  _ know _ he saw what I really look like. He…”

Tim trails off. Jon’s not sure where in the story he started thinking of him as actually Tim. He's about to say something when Tim continues. Jon’s not entirely sure Tim’s actually talking to him anymore, not really.

“And I was just.  _ So _ angry, like if hurting the person responsible would  _ help _ or  _ fix  _ me. I didn't know  _ who _ to be mad at. Elias, obviously. But I can't break into a prison to kill him. And the circus was gone. So that just left  _ you _ . And when I found out everyone else got  _ free _ ?” He laughs, a dry, humorless thing. “I just wanted  _ someone _ to pay.”

A silence stretches between them. Not tense, just. Waiting. It’s a long pause, long enough for Jon to really come to terms with the fact that this  _ is  _ Tim. This is really Tim, and he’s been in a hell so familiar, but one lacking a convenient escape. There’s nothing he can say. Can he really even say they’re friends? Even before  _ this _ . They weren’t even really friends by the end of things, going out for drinks and joking in their own disparate ways over lunch in the canteen nothing but distant memories of a better time. And now? After what’s happened to Tim? After what Jon brought on him? No they aren’t friends.

“I can't, though. It-It would make me no better than  _ them _ would it?”

Jon doesn't say anything. What can he say to  _ that.  _ He’s equally very glad he can't see what Tim looks like now and regretful he can't understand the scope of what the man’s gone through. He remembers Tim mentioning… button eyes at one point and shivers.

“Tim,” he starts to say, voice quite and rasping. “I'm so-”

A loud, echoing shot rings through the room followed immediately by the sound of something made of stuffing and wood collapsing to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too melodramatic. I stared at this chapter for hours before deciding "I don't care if it is"


End file.
